


Fire Drill

by ToxicLaughter



Category: The Rain (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 19:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18879697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToxicLaughter/pseuds/ToxicLaughter
Summary: Patrick is a loser.Martin is not.





	Fire Drill

**Author's Note:**

> Some Things:  
> I gave Martin a random last name, it's not canon, but I just wanted to give him a full name.  
> Football in this story is "soccer"
> 
> Disclaimer: I've never been to a Danish high school, so this is mostly based off my experience at an American high school

“Fucking rain.” 

Of course, he thought, the school would schedule a fire drill on the day where there wasn’t a _chance_ of rain but rather a _it’s going to happen whether you like it or not fuckers_. Just like them too. Patrick imagined them sitting in that office adjacent to the school psychiatrists, the one with the big round table made of fake wood, and scheming to make his life a living hell. _Did you hear? That Patrick isn’t wearing that trash bag jacket today, and I heard on the tele it’s going to rain this afternoon, let’s have the kids spend a spell outside and cool off_. He snickered at the thought. Of course after they’d make such a plan they’d laugh maniacally like those supervillains from Saturday morning cartoons.

But, he figured it must be true. Otherwise, how would things line up so horribly wrong for him? The night prior his father had mentioned how he stank. He had leaned in real close to Patrick and took a big whiff. The man’s face had contorted to something that must’ve been over exaggerated, and he waved his hand in front of his face. He told him he smelled like death. Patrick had half a mind to tell him he felt like it. His father had stripped him of his jacket, the one he wore rain or shine, snow or blazing sun, and threw it in the washer. That morning he had hung the jacket up on the clothesline in their backyard, telling his son that if _that fucking coat ever gets that fucking rancid again I’m gonna shove it up your ass_. A metaphor for throwing it away, Patrick supposed.

And then it rained. He saw it start from his math class. The clouds got gray and heavy and then, bam, like magic they dumped their contents onto the city. He wondered how it all really worked. Sure he could crack open a textbook and spit off some stupid shit about precipitation and constipation (RE: condensation) till he turned blue in the face, but that was boring. He wanted to know what it looked like. Did the water really just float in the sky? All the way up there, like balloons? Patrick wondered if you could sit on a cloud.

And then the fire alarm went off. His teacher stood with a sigh that suggested she knew it was coming all along, and motioned for them to make a single-file line. His classroom was located on the bottom floor, near the back of the school, where they sent the morons. (No one would ever tell him different when he said it that way. He was stupid - he was there - so they must send the stupid kids there.) Their placement in the school meant his class got to take refuge on the football field, by one of the nets. 

His teacher had held up a folder with her name on it as they marched towards the net, telling them to hush occasionally, and stay together. Once outside she had lowered the folder to before her chest and stood in front of her students, waiting for the principal to come around and clear them to go back inside.

Patrick stared down at his shoes - Chuck Taylors, he thought smugly, the most expensive thing he owned - they’d been in the field for nearly ten minutes and the thin cloth had been soaked through. His socks were soggy and when he wiggled his toes he could hear the squished of the wet fabric. 

The kids around him are on their phones, texting friends, posting to Snapchat - _Fire drill :P_ \- and Patrick wondered if he was the one out of place. He didn’t have a smartphone. They were expensive, even now, and his father had nearly bust a seam laughing when he asked for one a few months back. He’d patted his son on the shoulder and told him if he felt like he could trust him he’d upgrade Patrick from his military grade flip phone to a touch screen device, but he can’t. Unspoken, is the fact that he never will.

He shivers. His nose is pinking, probably because of the fucking rain, he thinks bitterly. He’ll probably get the flu, because he’d skipped out on getting his flu shot that season so he could get high behind the local library. He’d told his father that he’d gotten it anyways, which is why he was lethargic that night, flu shot symptoms. 

If (RE: when) he gets the flu, he’ll probably die from it. Too lazy to ever visit the doctor. Content with getting the sniffles. Maybe he’s being too dramatic. When was the last time someone died from the fucking flu, he thinks, never. 

The white rubber on the toes of his shoes are collecting whatever water they can, making thin reflective pools. They mirror his face back him. His jaw clenches. He looks like rat. A dirty sewer rat.

His mother would be so disappointed.

“Excuse me.” Patrick looks up slowly, because he’s still thinking about how he should shave, take a shower, cut his hair, something to make himself look more presentable, and he’s surprised to find another person so close to him. People don’t get close.  
_You smell like the garbage dump, son._ “Do you need a jacket?”

It clicks then, who this must be. He’s never had any classes with him, certainly never spoken to him before. This is Martin Nissen. Fabled Martin Nissen. Straight laced, football star, popular Martin Nissen. He’s wearing a blue jumper that looks warm enough, but it’s not wet just yet so Patrick thinks that the jacket his has in his hand must be the one he just had on. The next thing that clicks make him speak.

“You shouldn’t be talking to me.”

Because people like Martin don’t associate with people like Patrick. 

Martin laughs, the way someone does when they’re not sure what to say. “Kind of cliche.”

“What?”

“Your thought process. I shouldn’t be talking to you because you’re…”

 _He’s trying to be nice, stop him._ “A loser.”

“Not the word I would use.”

Martin extends his jacket in offer again, raising his brows. Patrick doesn’t think of the consequences, doesn’t really acknowledge how strange it is that Martin is here, on the football field (his classes were most certainly on the third floor, where the kids with promise studied, and he should be on the other side of the school) he just takes the jacket and puts it on over his soaked tee shirt. 

Martin seems all too pleased with himself. 

<>

He did laundry for the first time that night. He washed Martin’s jacket clean of his stench. And Martin’s cologne. Which, Patrick hates to think, is a bummer. The jacket had smelled nice. And now, fresh from the dryer, it smells of heat and softner. Not of Martin. But more importantly not of him.

<>

Martin is popular, in that sense that everyone knows of him, but he’s not truly known by everyone. When he asks the girl he sits next to in literature if she knows his locker number she stares at him like he’s crazy. By lunch his hands are shaking because he still has Martin Nissen’s fucking jacket and he feels like the fucking thief he is and it’s making his head hurt.

He finds the girl he remembers seeing kiss Martin in the hallway their freshman year. She’s nice enough, a bit psychotic if you ask him. He asks her if she knows his locker number. She tells him to fuck off and that if he has beef with Martin he should just go _find him_. And he would, really he would, if the idea didn’t make him want to retch onto his shoes.

By the end of the day he’s still got the jacket in his hands and it’s burning his skin if he’s honest. He’s sitting on the bench by the student parking lot, watching the kids with loving parents and lives he could only ever pretend to have, file into their cars and speed off. “The fuck am I doing here?” _Because you might see him, fucking moron._ “You’re fucking stupid.” He stands, gripping the jacket like he wants to rip it in half.

“Oh, I was looking for you.” 

Patrick tenses, then loosens his grip on the jacket.

“You’ve been avoiding me all day.”

Patrick holds out the jacket. “Here.”

Martin takes it, grinning. It makes Patrick uncomfortable. Like Martin knows something he doesn’t. “Thanks. You didn’t have to wash it though.” Patrick doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure if this is Martin’s version of teasing. Or bullying. “It’s Patrick, right?”

He decides to let his asshole out. “You gave me your jacket and didn’t even know my fucking name? I thought you were supposed to be smart or some shit.”

It’s enough to knock Martin off his game. Good enough for Patrick. 

“Guess not.” He starts to walk away, but can’t. Mostly because Martin has grabbed his upper arm. Not tightly. Just a hand, holding him there. 

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Good.”

Patrick shuffles his feet, rubbing the toes of his shoes together. “I’m confused.” Martin lets go of him, apparently sure that Patrick wasn’t going to walk away, and asks why. “Are you talking to me because it’s like, a joke thing?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Because you’re interesting.”

“You’re lying.”

Martin smiles. “Can I give you my phone number, so we can hang out sometime?”

“Fuck you.” Patrick says it with intention of it being mean, but it comes out in a soft whisper. He sounds more surprised than angry.

The parking lot is almost empty now. From where he’s standing he can see Martin’s car. It’s a blue Subaru. He’s got a bumper sticker on it with the words, _Fordi Noget er Værd at Kæmpe For*_ , the Danish Military’s motto. Patrick sees it every morning when he walks through the parking lot. He and Martin are both creatures of habit, Patrick always walking the same route and Martin always parking in the same spot.

“Just give me a chance.” It sounds wrong. Martin shouldn’t be pleading to hang out with him. “Just one chance.”

“Okay.” He says, because if he hears Martin beg anymore he’ll lose his mind. “One chance.”

“That’s all I need.”

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe I continue this??? IDK lmk what ya'll think.
> 
> * - According to Google, this IS the motto for the Danish military and it means, "some things are worth fighting for".


End file.
